


we can help each other (we can heal together)

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sexual Content, Fix-It, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Smut, Yennefer and Jaskier are friends, and the aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: Her eyes are still too narrow, too shrewd. It unnerves Jaskier. Then, softly, Yennefer adds, “Your feelings for Geralt - I had not realized.”Jaskier snorts, but does not pretend to misunderstand. “That’s quite alright. He never did either, if it’s any consolation.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 184
Kudos: 3264
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Medium Length Works to Read, The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaahhh it’s finally here! This was originally supposed to be a 4K one-shot and turned into a 10K+ beast of a story, so I felt it best to split into two chapters. The second half is almost entirely pre-written - the end’s done, I just have to sort of figure out how I wanna get there (and how much smut I want to incorporate). The rating on this will likely go up in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone on tumblr who was so excited for the preview! Your support means the world to me <3

Jaskier sings. 

For days after his final conversation with Geralt - his heart gives a painful lurch at the thought, and he finds it hard to breathe because  _ yes  _ it was the absolute last conversation he’ll ever have with him. The Witcher doesn’t want to see him again; has made it  _ painfully  _ clear he wants nothing to do with him. Jaskier is intimately familiar with the biting sting of rejection but this one hurts more, so much more - all he does is write songs and sing. 

After all, Jaskier is an artist first and foremost. He cannot shy away from his emotions or make himself numb to them. He must suffer through them; feel the full extent of his grief, his anger, his  _ heartbreak _ . They all work to make the lyrics bleed from his fingers and onto the page. He scratches out words in his notebook and replaces them with newer words, better words; words that capture the full extent of the injustice and pain of loving someone whose heart belongs to another. A beautiful,  _ destructive  _ other. 

He sings in taverns and courts; gets more coin than he knows what to do with, because of course, his greatest composition comes from his greatest heartbreak. And every time he sings, it feels like he’s reopening a wound, makes it raw and bleeding. 

Jaskier also drinks. 

He doesn’t drink to forget. No, if he has anything to say about it, he’s going to remember the way he feels right now  _ forever _ . Jaskier drinks to  _ cope _ . He may be an artist, a masochist suffering for his art, forcing himself to sit in his pain so that he may wrench out of himself the most beautiful, shattering songs. But Jaskier is also a  _ survivor _ ; he is the flower that blooms in spite of the snow. 

And so he drinks. The burn of the alcohol cauterizing the raw and bleeding wound inside of him, providing blessed relief. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s for a little while. 

It’s how he finds himself at one of Redania’s finest taverns after a successful evening performing a medley of songs at court. He’s tipsy, bordering on drunk really, which suits him just fine. The lovely ladies at court kept requesting he play  _ that  _ song and Jaskier couldn’t refuse because after all -

_ I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting; _

So he downs tankard after tankard of ale; drinks until his vision is pleasantly hazy at the edges and he can indulge in harmless flirtations with the attractive men and women around him without feeling like his entire body is going to split itself in two.

There’s one man in particular. He’s a little older, his hair more salt than pepper. His face is largely unlined, his jaw is strong and defined, and his eyes are such a brilliant shade of hazel that if Jaskier squints he can trick himself into believing they are a unique, bewitching shade of molten gold -

The man flirts. And buys Jaskier another drink. And slides a hand up and down the length of his back. It’s not right, not _really_ , but it’s not _wrong_ either and it feels _so_ _nice_ to be wanted by a man with hair that’s more salt than pepper and hazel eyes that could be gold, and Jaskier just wants to sink into it all; to feel something other than sorrow and anguish, even if it’s only for a moment. 

This is of course when one Yennefer of Vengerberg walks in.

“Oh, fuck.”

Jaskier spots her right away, how could he not, the vehement curse leaving his lips before he can help himself. Although he’s definitely tipsy, teetering on drunk, he feels almost entirely  _ sober _ when those violet eyes spot  _ him _ and the sorceress begins walking in his general direction. 

He makes a point to only look at his drink. Or the bar. Or the attractive man beside him who is now sliding a hand into the crook of Jaskier’s elbow - at anything and everything, really,  _ but  _ the sorceress.

That plan goes to shit pretty soon when his vision is suddenly flooded by expensive furs, richly beaded ebony silk, and purple eyes. Jaskier stiffens, and even his bar companion startles when Yennefer firmly wedges herself in between the two of them. “May we help you?” he asks with a furrowed brow. 

The sorceress barely gives him a glance, red-painted lips pursed, oozing disdain. “You  _ may _ get the fuck out of my sight,” she replies with frightening calm. “You’re not the one I’m here to talk to.”

“ _ What _ ?”

Jaskier sighs inwardly, feeling a headache building at the base of his temples. The man doesn’t budge, so Yennefer turns the full force of her violet eyes on him and, to his credit, he only pales a little. “It would be in your best interest not to make me repeat myself. Now - go. Shoo.”

He scrambles away pretty quickly after that. 

Jaskier swirls his tankard of ale around. “That was my company for the evening you just scared away,” he remarks, pretending to be casual when he’s feeling anything but. 

“A little too obvious don’t you think?”

The hit lands. Of course it does. Yennefer always did know what buttons to push; how to get under Jaskier’s skin. He cuts to the chase. 

“What do you want, Yennefer?”

The sorceress shrugs, even as her violet eyes narrow, shrewd and knowing. “I heard of a little bard drinking and singing his way through heartbreak. Thought I’d come see it for myself.”

“Fascinating,” Jaskier says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Tell me, your song -”

“I won’t stop singing it. So don’t even ask. You won’t scare me into stopping either.”

“I was not planning on making such a demand, but good to know,” she replies. Her eyes are still too narrow, too shrewd. It unnerves Jaskier. Then, softly, Yennefer adds, “Your feelings for Geralt - I had not realized.”

Jaskier snorts, but does not pretend to misunderstand. “That’s quite alright. He never did either, if it’s any consolation.”

“Well that’s not at all surprising to hear. Our dear Witcher can be quite dense.”

“ _ Our _ ?” Jaskier laughs, hard and bitter. Takes another hearty sip of ale, feeling his heart split anew. “No, no, no, no, no. There’s no ‘our.’ Geralt’s never been  _ mine _ . Why, according to  _ your  _ Witcher, I’ve only been a harbinger of pain and ruin. Or haven’t you heard, Yennefer?”

She fixes him with a long look. “I’ve seen enough to know that  _ our  _ Witcher was more yours than he was ever mine,” she says, flagging the barkeep for a glass of wine, even as Jaskier sputters, turning disbelieving blue eyes towards her. “But it seems we’re both at a crossroad with Geralt. Perhaps, we can help each other.”

He meets her steady, violet eyes; sees an agony and pain he is all too familiar with lurking in their depths. Jaskier licks his lips, tilts his chin. “I’m listening.”

“Have another drink first,” the sorceress says, waving a hand over Jaskier’s nearly emptied tankard. He looks down to see that it’s now filled to the brim with frothy, chilled ale, and raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“How utterly sloshed do I need to be exactly to hear your proposal, witch?” 

“Just enough that you won’t feel compelled to censure yourself.”

“And what if I say something you don’t like? What then?” Jaskier challenges. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his bewitched tankard. “Will you curse me?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. No, I won’t curse you. You have my word.”

_ Your word means shit all to me _ is on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but he forces himself to swallow the words down. There’s something...terribly compelling and almost  _ earnest  _ in Yennefer’s expression. It disorients him - flies in the face of everything he has come to believe about the sorceress with raven hair and purple eyes. 

Instead, he pushes the tankard of ale away, squares his shoulders, and meets Yennefer’s gaze head on as he murmurs, “You asked for honesty, Yennefer, so here’s what I honestly think; yes, it might very well be true that we are both at a crossroad with Geralt. But you  _ chose  _ yours. You chose to walk away from him. And your reasons may have been valid, but the fact is that you could wave those terrifyingly powerful hands of yours and portal yourself to Geralt right now, and he would welcome you back with open arms, because he cares for you - might even  _ love  _ you,” he spits out the words like they’re glass in his mouth, his stomach bottoming out. “ _ I _ , on the other hand, did not choose this. There is no world in which I would have chosen this. No, I was purposefully tossed aside, with the cruelest words Geralt could muster so I would  _ stay _ aside, because while he cares for you, he does not appear to care for me. At all. So tell me, Yennefer, how in the ever-loving  _ fuck _ can we help each other?”

Jaskier’s breathing is heavy and labored, and he’s mildly horrified when he realizes his eyes are  _ stinging _ a little. He averts his gaze back to his tankard, drawing it closer once more, unable to look at Yennefer’s expression, which had shifted during the course of his rather impressive monologue into something akin to pity. Sure, Jaskier might be heartbroken over Geralt, and angry at Geralt, and he might  _ miss  _ Geralt terribly, but he still has his pride. And he refuses to be pitied by  _ Yennefer of Vengerberg. _

“Why don’t you have that drink now,” she suggests, and Jaskier actually quite likes the idea of loading up his system with more alcohol, so he complies without another word. The ale tastes...better, somehow. Less sour; more bodied, and there’s a bitter aftertaste that’s not entirely unpleasant - is really rather nice - might even be  _ soothing _ . 

If he hadn’t just bared his heart and soul to Yennefer, Jaskier would probably be concerned about the sorcery at play here, but as it is, he’s downing the contents of his tankard with gusto. 

“It’s impressive,” Yennefer comments idly, “to hear someone so smart say things that are so bloody stupid.”

Jaskier nearly chokes on his ale. “ _ Excuse  _ me?”

“You’re a fool if you don’t think Geralt cares about you, Jaskier. He would move earth and sky for you - was prepared to do just that, in fact, when the djinn harmed you.” Her mouth curves with bitterness. “And you needn’t magically intertwine your fates to inspire that degree of care from him.”

“Wait - what, uh,” Jaskier’s gripping his tankard so tightly his knuckles whiten as he struggles to form a coherent sentence. That was - it was  _ envy  _ coloring Yennefer’s words, he is sure of it; can confidently say so only because he himself is intimately acquainted with the feeling. It’s a side of the sorceress he’s never seen before and it leaves him off-balance, on uneven footing. He’s never expected to  _ empathize  _ with Yennefer of Vengerberg, after all. “What are you trying to say?”

Yennefer takes a long sip of her wine. “You care for and give your love freely and without compromise. Even when you believe those affections may not be returned. You make it look  _ easy _ . I - I do not know what that is like, though I would like to,” the admission is whispered through teeth gritted in quiet pain. “But I do know how to recover from a heartbreak that feels like it could swallow you alive. So if you would show me...I will help you.”

“A quid pro quo. I see.” Jaskier swallows against a thundering heartbeat. It seems the sorceress was right - they have somehow found themselves in a position to mutually benefit from helping each other. Part of him is itching to ask her exactly  _ why  _ she’d like to embark on such an arrangement, but another, larger part has learned the value of not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If Yennefer can indeed help him climb out from the bottomless pit of grief over losing Geralt forever, he certainly won’t say no. “I believe you have yourself a bargain, witch.”

She nods just once, curt and graceful and terrifying all at once. “Shall we seal it with a toast?” she suggests, even as her hand waves over his cup once more, producing more of that frothy ale. Belatedly, Jaskier wonders if the bewitched drink is part of Yennefer’s grand scheme to help dull his heartbreak. It certainly feels...well, if not nonexistent, then certainly more manageable. 

“Why the hell not. Cheers.” 

***

Yennefer watches.

She watches Jaskier lift up his tankard in a mock salute before drinking a decent mouthful of the ale. Her own drink is mostly untouched; only there for appearance’s sake; to lull the bard with a broken heart into  _ some  _ sense of complacency. 

The magicked drink is, after all, laced with hawthorn, to soothe grief, and just a sprinkle of black nightshade, otherwise known as -

Truth serum. 

Turns out, she needn’t have bothered. Jaskier had divulged his most intimate of thoughts without it; had allowed her a glimpse into his innermost feelings for the Witcher despite - or perhaps  _ in spite of  _ \- his distrust of her.

She continues to watch the bard with something of an odd fascination. He is - he continues to subvert any preconceived expectations she has. Yennefer had initially pegged him as a vapid, self-centered, cowardly man with little sense and, yes, a good amount of talent. But that was not right, not at all, not by any stretch. Instead, she’s come to understand that Jaskier is unfailingly loyal - almost to a fault - and sensitive, considerate; someone who remains hopeful and idealistic, even in the face of unfettered cruelty. Someone who loves deeply and without condition and that - that is its own kind of bravery. Bewildering and strange and rare and awe-inspiring all at once.

Jaskier must notice her scrutiny because he raises a haughty eyebrow. “See something you like?”

“Hardly. Even if I did, I don’t suppose you’d much go for it.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Yennefer’s mouth curls sardonically. She reaches for her own rusted goblet of mediocre tavern wine and takes a dainty sip, pleased to note that Jaskier’s tankard is nearly empty. He should be feeling the effects of the truth serum by now, which is just as well - there’s a question burning on the tip of her tongue. 

“How do you do it?” The question is soft-spoken but full of curiosity. 

Jaskier stretches, sliding a hand through sweat-slicked brown hair. There’s a drunken flush high on his cheekbones. “Do what?”

“Love, the way you do,” she clarifies. “When there is no guarantee of it being reciprocated - when there might only be pain on the other side.”

The bard is uncharacteristically quiet for a long time, seemingly considering his answer with thought and care - yet, another surprise. 

Finally, looking solemn and almost  _ sober  _ \- even after countless tankards - he says, “There is no life without pain, yes?”

Her transformation - what she had to sacrifice in the name of abstract notions of beauty, of power - flashes through Yennefer’s mind. This is an easy answer. “Yes.”

“Well, there is no love without pain either. No love that is worthwhile at least,” Jaskier continues. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Love - familial, platonic, romantic - is meant to be felt fully. It is accepting a person wholly - flaws and all - because you love them for who they are, not who you think they might be. Their hopes and dreams and insecurities become yours; you share in their happiness and their sorrow. You love, not to be loved, but because in your eyes, they are worthy and deserving of it. And that, dear Yennefer,” he finishes, “is why there is no love without pain. True love has no expectations of being returned. It simply  _ is _ . Whatever that might incur.”

The inside of Yennefer’s mouth feels too dry all at once. Oh yes, she has sorely, sorely misjudged the man before her. She thinks of her mother. Tissaia. Istredd. Triss. 

Geralt.

Her chest is too tight. She fights the urge to gnaw at a nail. “And how do you know you love someone?”

“When their happiness and their needs become just as important, if not more important, to you than your own.”

“And is that how you feel about Geralt?”

“Yes. Much to my chagrin,” Jaskier says, rueful. He meets her eyes. “Do  _ you _ love Geralt?”

Yennefer’s mouth twists. “Maybe. No.”

“Enlightening.” Jaskier’s tone is wry. “So is this how you propose we, uh,  _ fulfill  _ \- shall we say - the terms of our bargain, Yennefer? Story swapping?”

“Among other things.”

“How quaint. I feel I must inform you that it has thus far been a  _ very  _ one-sided contribution. Meanwhile  _ I  _ am still drowning in the depths of sorrow. High time you hold up your part of the bargain, methinks.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, but there is a faint prick of amusement deep in her chest. “Are you quite certain that you don’t feel better, bard?”

Jaskier stops moving all at once, hands patting down his chest, eyebrows scrunching. “Erm…”

“You do feel better don’t you? Perhaps,” she continues, now highly amused and with a sly smile, “if you weren’t intent on being so dramatic all of the time, you’d have noticed.”

“You put something in my drink didn’t you, witch?” the bard accuses. “I  _ knew  _ it tasted different!”

“Thank me later.”

“I most certainly will  _ not,  _ you - wait, where are you going? Yennefer. Yennefer!”

“I’m off to bed. I suggest you do the same,” she says, wrapping her fur-lined coat more tightly around her. “We’ll be going to Toussaint early tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he staggers. “ _ We _ ?”

Yennefer is unfazed by his incredulousness. “Yes. It would be most beneficial to our bargain if we traveled together for some time. Or do you have pressing plans to be elsewhere?” She raises a dark eyebrow for emphasis.

“I -” the bard frowns; considers. “I guess not.”

“Well then. Goodnight Jaskier.”

“Goodnight Yennefer.”

***

Geralt hunts.

He travels from town to town, takes contract after contract, not stopping, even when his muscles ache and his bones hurt. Doesn’t stop even when exhaustion makes him a little sloppier; earns him cuts and deep-seated scars. The few hours a day he  _ does  _ stop is when his body is on the brink of shutdown, and he closes his eyes to fitful dreams filled with lilac and gooseberries; with sandalwood and primrose, and eyes as blue as a clear summer’s day. 

Geralt always awakens from the dreams with a start and heaving breaths; hunts even harder in an effort to burn away the image of ocean blue eyes from his mind forever. He camps alone; sits in taverns alone; kills monsters alone. Works himself to the bone, day in and day out, again and again. 

Alone. 

It’s better this way. This is what he tells himself. A Witcher’s life is a lonely one, not meant for companionship, friendship, love. And yet -

Jaskier’s face, unbidden, flashes through his mind. Those gods damn blue eyes alight and pink mouth curved in a dazzling smile. Geralt grits his teeth against the stab of pain shooting straight through his heart. 

He’s never felt like this. Never  _ hurt  _ like this. He wonders if pain is why Vesemir cautioned against attachment. If he’d once been hurt and had hurt someone he’d cared for, and the guilt and regret and pain had threatened to swallow him whole. 

So Geralt hunts. He hunts so he can stop thinking about the sorceress whose trust he shattered forevermore. He hunts so he can stop thinking about the bard with the blue, blue eyes who can’t stop running his mouth for the life of him; who stood by Geralt’s side and called Geralt his friend time and time again. 

It doesn’t work. Because, when exhaustion catches up to the Witcher, and his body threatens to shut down - 

All his dreams are of sandalwood and primrose and Jaskier.

And Yennefer is on his mind - how could she not be - but Jaskier  _ haunts  _ his entire being. Some nights, when Geralt is horribly sleep-deprived and nearly delirious with it, he thinks he  _ sees  _ Jaskier. Perched atop a log, doublet undone and embroidered chemise proudly on display. The firelight bathing him in a warm, orange glow. Slender fingers strumming his lute idly, humming the first few notes of a song.

His heart will fill with yearning so fierce and regret so sharp he can taste them. But he can’t go back; can’t seek him out, no - the damage he’s inflicted is too great. Irreparable. He’d gone and thrown away the one relationship that’s been a constant in a terrible, long, and painful life. Geralt will never get Jaskier back.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Witchers are nothing but weapons of ruin and destruction, coated in dirt and guts and blood; meant for little else but killing. It would not have been long until he’d tainted Jaskier with his rot and his ugliness. A Witcher’s Path is meant to be walked alone.

Geralt keeps hunting. Travels from town to town and takes great care to avoid those that whisper of a broken-hearted troubadour singing songs of grief and loss. 

It’s better this way, he tells himself. For him. For Yennefer. 

For Jaskier. 

But there’s a voice at the back of his mind that he’s unable to get rid of, no matter how hard he hunts or how tired he feels. It whispers to him during the day and at night and every moment in between -

If it’s too truly better this way, why does he feel so empty inside?

***

Jaskier has been traveling with Yennefer for three months now. 

It’s odd, at first. For one, instead of walking or riding, they use Yennefer’s carriage to get around the Continent. It’s painted midnight black, with gold details and plush, velvet seating. A far more luxurious mode of transportation than Jaskier is typically accustomed to, but that dissipates rather quickly when he doesn’t wear down the soles of his boots in weeks and his doublets and chemises stop reeking of sweat so often and don’t fray with daily washing.

There’s also the not-so-small matter of  _ traveling with Yennefer _ , which has certainly never been a part of his plans. But the sorceress lets him accompany her to some of the finest courts in the land, where he gets to compose and sing and fill his pockets with coin while she -

Well.

Jaskier’s not exactly sure  _ what _ Yennefer does.  _ Research  _ is his best guess, from the way she ensorcells lordlings and inquires and combs obsessively through tomes as thick as tree trunks in the most prestigious libraries in the Continent. Many times, Jaskier is tempted to ask her  _ what  _ it is she’s looking for, but finds himself unable to work up the nerve to do so.

They’ve reached something of a truce, him and Yennefer. Much to his initial surprise, the terms of their bargain actually  _ work _ . Yennefer helps him make sense of his heartbreak by lending him a sympathetic ear here and again, and in return, he does his best to explain how one loves unconditionally. There are still days where he feels like his grief is going to swallow him whole, but they are fewer and farther in between, and there are less nights spent nose-deep in a bottle of wine or a tankard of ale. 

Some days, Jaskier wonders if the two are related - if Yennefer’s research and her desire to love and be loved unconditionally are intertwined. He wonders if it has to do with Geralt. 

The days where he thinks about Geralt and  _ Geralt and Yennefer  _ \- in love and together - are the days he gets drunk off his ass and composes his saddest songs.

Yennefer finds him in such a state one night when they’re in Posada and tosses a pretty cork-capped vial his way, filled with shimmering gold liquid. “For your hangover,” she says, just as Jaskier is about to squawk in protest when the bottle bounces off his head. She looks at him with too-shrewd, too-knowing violet eyes for a moment, before adding, “I’m not in love with Geralt, you know. So you can stop drinking yourself into oblivion.”

“I - what - erm -” Jaskier clears his throat, wide-eyed and blinking profusely, feeling thoroughly caught off-guard. “How did you know?

The sorceress shrugs. “You’re not exactly hard to read.”

“Oh,” is all he says in response, eloquent as ever.

She’s about to retreat to her own room in the expansive estate they’re staying in - it belongs to some lord who owes Yennefer a favor, and has agreed to put them up. Jaskier’s not one to protest the accommodations - when she stops by the door and turns. “Take the potion before you go to sleep. Your head won’t hurt in the morning.”

Jaskier swallows. There’s something warm and bright beginning to fill his chest. “Thank you, Yennefer.”

The sorceress merely tips her head before leaving.

The next morning - feeling as refreshed as if he’d never had a drop to drink - Jaskier resolves to end this little pity party once and for all. If Geralt loves Yennefer and never speaks to him again, then so be it - there is little he can control in this life besides his own actions.

And by the gods, his own actions he will control.

“We should go to Oxenfurt next,” Jaskier says to Yennefer over breakfast.

“Any particular reason?”

“Not really,” he replies, injecting as much casualty in his tone as possible. “Only, I’ve been due to give a lecture there for some time now. And they have quite the library on campus.”

Yennefer stops eating. “Is that right?”

“Oh yes. Largest on the Continent, if I’m not mistaken. Filled with books as old as the land itself. Could be quite...educational.”

“Mhm,” she says and Jaskier is suddenly reminded of  _ Geralt.  _ He breathes through the sharp pain in his chest. “Perhaps it’s worth checking out. Shall we set out this afternoon?”

Jaskier nods. “Yes. Let’s.”

“Great.” Her expression softens then, a small smile curling at her lips. Jaskier finds himself unable to stop from returning it; the warmth and brightness in his chest expanding. 

They arrive at Oxenfurt a week later. The academy is delightful, which - of course it is. Jaskier is having a grand old time catching up with former classmates, roaming the familiar halls, and lecturing. He finds that Oxenfurt recenters and heals him, and wonders why he hadn’t thought to come here first. 

“Julian Pankratz as I live and breathe. I heard you’d come back!”

Jaskier turns and smiles, painfully aware that Yennefer is next to him and wondering to himself if she’d known his real name. Her expression is schooled into one of trademark impassiveness, but Jaskier likes to think he’s gotten to know Yennefer of Vengerberg pretty well over the last few months, and that’s  _ definitely  _ a glimmer of interest in her eyes. 

He clears his throat. “Great to see you as well, Professor Erickson. Why, you don’t look a day over fifty, sir.”

The older man laughs, delighted. “Charming as ever, I see. That is a monster of a lie, Julian, you and I both know it. You, on the other hand,” he gestures at Jaskier, “look as youthful as the day you stepped into my classroom.”

Yennefer’s gaze sharpens, even as Jaskier demurs. “The product of a rigorous regimen of creams and other concoctions, I assure you professor.”

They chat for a little while longer before his former teacher bids them goodbye, off to yet another seminar. Jaskier claps his hands, hoping Yennefer won’t press the subject. “So! How about some lunch before you head back to the library and I -”

“You do not age,” Yennefer cuts in, and he closes his eyes briefly, fighting the urge to pinch his nose. Melitele, he doesn’t know why he thought  _ Yennefer of Vengerberg _ of all people would let something go. “Haven’t aged since I met you. Why is that?”

Jaskier laughs weakly. “I  _ knew  _ you were taking the piss about my supposed crow’s feet, you arsehole.”

The sorceress doesn’t deign him with a response. Merely raises a perfectly groomed dark eyebrow. 

He huffs, running an agitated hand through his hair. “Fine, fine,  _ fine _ . Honestly, I thought you’d have figured it out by this point, so I suppose it doesn’t quite matter if I tell you, though you  _ must  _ keep it between us.” 

“If I  _ must _ . Now out with it, bard.” 

“I -” Gods this is  _ not  _ how he’d envisioned having this conversation, but his life had gone spectacularly off the rails since the dragon hunt. “I have elven blood. My mother -” his heart squeezes as he thinks of Ilona, who crossed the veil far too early, when Jaskier was far too young. “She was an elf.”

Yennefer blinks. “A full elf? But, your ears -”

“Luck of the draw,” he explains, a hand automatically going up to hover self consciously around the smooth, curved arch of his ear. “Which is just as well. Her family wasn’t exactly  _ thrilled  _ she wed a human, as I’m sure you can imagine. Neither were my father’s parents, I mean who’d ever heard of a viscount marrying an elf? It was - well, not easy, but certainly  _ easier  _ \- when I was born without elven ears. My grandparents could pretend I wasn’t an embarrassment to the Pankratz name and that their disdain hadn’t driven my mother into an early grave.”

He’s finding himself unable to look into the sorceress’s violet eyes. He hears, more than sees, Yennefer approaching him; feels a warm hand in the crook of his elbow. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” she whispers, voice soft and soothing. Jaskier swallows and nods; allows Yennefer to guide him to an outdoor courtyard with soft pebbles lining the ground and a marble fountain upon which rests the statue of the goddesses of knowledge and wisdom. 

They sit on one of the many white benches dotting the expanse of the space. Jaskier notices Yennefer’s hand never really leaves his elbow. It’s...unexpected, but lovely all the same. The contact grounding him in the present instead of the maze of his thoughts and daydreams and yearning. 

“Do you know why I sought you out for our bargain?” Yennefer asks after moments pass by with only silence between them.

Jaskier shakes his head. 

“I want to be a mother,” she confesses. “I know that may be surprising. Most don’t exactly think of me as mother material. But it’s become  _ painfully  _ clear that I will not bear that child myself. So I - I just want to be sure that I am able to love this child unconditionally, with my entire being, even if they are not my own. There was a time when I thought that maybe, with Geralt -” she shakes her head. “But  _ that _ is tainted with djinn magic; a bond I’m hoping one of the books in this library will help me break. It’s not real. I’ve seen the way  _ you _ love, Jaskier. It’s  _ true _ ; it’s  _ real _ . I want that for myself and my child.”

“Oh.” Jaskier knows that for years to come, this is the moment he will recall as the turning point of his relationship with Yennefer - the moment the sorceress stops being his reluctant partner in grief, and becomes his friend. He softens all at once, hand coming up to tentatively cover hers. “That’s...that’s absolutely lovely, Yennefer. And for what it’s worth, I think that when the time comes, you will make a  _ great  _ mother.”

Her eyes snap up to meet his. “Really?” she breathes, looking so unsure, and how he’s missed the signs of insecurity, of pain hidden behind a mask of ruthlessness and selfishness before he doesn’t know, and wants to kick himself for it. But he’s here now; sees them clear as day, and isn’t it always better to get there eventually, than to never arrive at all? 

“Really,” he assures, and squeezes her hand. 

A song begins to write itself in his head. For the first time in months, it is not one of heartbreak; of a witcher with hair as white as freshly fallen snow and eyes of flame. 

No.

This one is about a sorceress with raven hair, purple eyes, who has walls around her the size of  _ mountains  _ to protect a heart yearning to love and be loved. 

***

Geralt is in Temeria, pursuing several contracts, when he hears it for the first time. 

He’s holed up in a rickety tavern on the outskirts of town, in a corner, as he is wont to do and far away from the crowd. There’s a bardling sitting on a wooden stool in the center of the tavern singing and playing. He’s young, with flaxen hair that falls in short curls just above his shoulders, and emerald eyes. His voice is perfectly fine; not displeasing to the ear, but not terribly special either. Certainly nothing like - 

Geralt sets his jaw against the aching bloom of pain, riddled with copious amounts of self-hatred, in his chest. It’s been - it’s been nearly eight months since the dragon hunt. The anger is gone, but the guilt remains festering, all-consuming.

And then, the words of the bardling’s song begin to sink in. 

_ They said oh beware  _

_ The mage with raven hair _

_ She’ll be your demise  _

_ With her purple eyes  _

_ But fear not the obsidian star _

_ For the walls of stone betray a heart of gold _

_ She has beauty and strength in every scar  _

_ A wish for love and loving in her actions foretold  _

Food and drink turn to ash in his mouth. The bardling has barely strummed the last chord on his lute before Geralt is upon him. “You,” he barks, startling the young man, whose eyes go comically wide when they spot the Witcher. “Where did you learn that song?”

“Oh, um, the troubadour Jaskier sang it at court not one full moon ago, Master Witcher,” the bardling stammers. “Was it - was it not to your liking? I can sing something else!”

“No, that’s -” Geralt’s tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. His throat is squeezing on itself like a vise. “That’s not necessary.” 

He walks back to his little corner in something of a daze; downs the rest of his ale in one, greedy go, before he packs up what meager possessions he has and goes to find Roach. Geralt’s fingers comb through the mare’s elegan brown coat as he fixes up her harness, his mind a riotous mess. 

Jaskier’s song - so clearly about  _ Yennefer  _ \- was full of admiration and sweet understanding for the sorceress. Those were not lyrics composed offhand, but the product of an acquaintance - a  _ friendship  _ \- that runs deep, built on trust and respect and -

_ When _ did Yennefer and Jaskier get to know each other as well as the song seems to imply? Somehow, someway, it appears his sorceress and his bard had found their way to each other.

Geralt is suddenly so overcome with envy he nearly  _ chokes  _ with it. It does not escape him that Jaskier used to write songs about  _ him _ ; that his admiration was reserved for Geralt only, and Geralt’s never been good at sharing the few things that are  _ his _ . 

But then, was Jaskier ever - did Geralt deserve to call him - 

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.  _

Geralt closes his eyes. His body is as tense as a bow string. His hands are balled into fists so tight, he feels his nails digging mercilessly into his palms. 

He did this to himself. He shirked his responsibility towards his Child Surprise; bound a woman to him without her consent; cruelly pushed away the one person who had willingly remained by Geralt’s side. Now, he is alone, through no one’s fault or machinations but his own; convinced himself that a Witcher’s life is meant to be lived as such. 

Geralt is not so sure anymore.

***

War is coming.

Jaskier can feel it brewing; can taste it in the air. So can everyone else. Nilfgaard’s army is growing bolder and moving farther and farther up north. 

He and Yennefer parted a few weeks ago - she to Aretuza and he to Lettenhove, much as he loathes being back. Even now, more than three decades since his mother passed, it still hurts. He paces around his manor, a little frantic and very agitated, filled to the brim with nervous energy that has nowhere to go. None of his usual creative outlets work - the stakes this time far too dire to be written away with song. And he’s made good on his promise not to self-medicate with alcohol.

So he frets. And paces. And nearly bites off his tongue with worry.

Jaskier keeps hoping that Nilfgaard won’t move on to Cintra. That Queen Calanthe’s prowess will cause them to beat a hasty retreat. 

Those hopes shrivel up into nothing but smoke when he smells brimstone and sulfur and then Yennefer appears through a portal, expression as solemn and serious as he’s ever seen it. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “They’re going to attack Cintra aren’t they.”

It doesn’t come out like a question. More of a statement of facts, as horrible as they are. 

“Yes.” Nobody will ever accuse Yennefer of beating around the bush. “Come with me. It’s not safe for you here.”

“Come with you  _ where _ ? Yen -  _ Yennefer _ !”

But the sorceress has already conjured up another portal and is dragging him through it, Jaskier’s questions and protests drowned out by the sounds of cackling magic. 

He’s gasping by the time they stumble through the portal, heaving in big, shuddering breaths. Gods, he hates portaling. “What the  _ fuck _ , Yen,” he manages, even as he takes stock of his surroundings; finds he doesn’t recognize them.

“We’re in Toussaint,” she says, answering his unasked question. “At an estate I procured a month or so ago. It’s laden with the best protective charms I know. You’ll be safe.”

Jaskier blinks. The gesture is a touching one, to be sure - a mark of the Yennefer he’s grown to know and care for dearly - but he’s not an idiot, despite what others might think. He can read in between the lines - and it fills his heart with equal parts dread and fear and pride. “You’re leaving.”

Yennefer absently runs her fingers through her star pendant. “I have to go fight. This -” she closes her eyes briefly. “It’s my fault.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do, Jaskier. Please don’t try and stop me.”

“I-” Jaskier stops himself. There’s a mess of emotions swirling in his chest. Terror, that Yennefer may not make it out alive. Awe, that she feels duty bound to help out. Perhaps the north will be safe from Nilfgaard still, if the Obsidian Star fights. “I understand. Just - don’t do anything rash, please.”

She nods a flicker of a smile crossing her lips. “I won’t. I’ll come back here as soon as it’s over.”

Yennefer turns around with a swirl of her skirts, hands already extending out to summon yet another portal. Jaskier watches, feeling somehow in his bones, that this is not how he wants them to part; that he should voice what he’s been feeling for months now, so that she may know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is worthy and deserving of l-

“Wait, Yennefer.” the words are out before his brain fully catches up with his mouth. She inclines her head, violet eyes meeting his. Jaskier licks his lips. “I think I ought to tell you I love you. Properly, dearly, as if - as if you were my sibling. And this is me being an absolutely selfish little shit, but I  _ need  _ you to be safe. I  _ need _ you to come back, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. Yennefer’s eyes are wide, and Jaskier thinks he sees them glimmer with unshed tears. But he stays quiet for once, waiting. 

Finally, Yennefer opens her mouth and - 

“Okay,” she whispers. 

And with another cackle of magic, she’s gone. Jaskier exhales shakily. 

***

There is smoke and embers and sulfur everywhere. 

Tissaia looks up, ash coating almost every single part of her exposed skin. There’s drying blood on the sides of her face and her forehead. The giant blaze of fire has long since died out, leaving only trails of smoky wisps in its wake.

Limbs trembling with the effort, she hoists herself up. “Yen-Yennefer?” she calls out. 

No response.

“Yennefer. Yennefer!  _ Yennefer! _ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaahhh part two is finally here! this story took so much out of me y’all, but i had such a blast writing it, and i hope everyone who read the first part will enjoy the way this story concludes. can’t wait for you all to read this and tell me what you thought!

_ Toussaint.  _

It’s an all-encompassing thought, the one that motivates Yennefer to use the last of her energy to portal herself back there. She knows Tissaia is probably worried; will probably try to look for her. 

But that’s not who she promised she would get back to. 

She stumbles through the portal, landing roughly on weathered stone and left hand clutching at her side.

An arm comes to wrap itself around her waist. 

“Yennefer! Mother of - gods, you’re  _ bleeding _ , quick hold onto me.” She lets out a breathy, pained gasp as Jaskier hooks her arm around his shoulder, bearing the brunt of her weight, and guides her into one of the rooms in the manor. He sets her atop a bed filled with sweet-smelling straw and immediately starts to rummage around for bandages and ointments and other concoctions. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer wheezes out, bringing a hand up to muffle a cough. 

The bard barely turns around as he clucks out a demanding, “quiet.” He fills his hands with various medical supplies before walking back up to her. Jaskier cleans her wounds with painstaking care, coating thick strips of linen with a soothing salve as he carefully, tenderly wraps them around her blistered and bleeding hands. “Melitele, Yennefer,” he mutters. “I thought I told you to be careful.”

“You told me to be safe,” she corrects, unable to help herself. “And I’m here, aren’t I?”

Jaskier huffs and rolls his eyes. “You would be one to argue semantics, right now,” he says, but he’s still cleaning out wounds and applying salves and bandaging her up. “You scared the absolute  _ shit  _ out of me, you know.”

“I know.”

“Let’s not make that a regular occurrence.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Because, honestly Yen, I feel I must inform you -”

Yennefer feels a surge of fondness well up in her chest. “Jaskier.”

The bard blinks out of his tirade, eyebrows furrowing. “Erm, yes?”

And Yennefer smiles. She’s exhausted and burnt from the inside out, and her fingers are bleeding and blistered and who knows when she’ll be able to comfortably use magic again - but this is the happiest she’s ever felt in her near one hundred years. “I love you too,” she says. 

***

Geralt finds Ciri.

Or rather - Ciri finds  _ him _ .

And it’s barely been two weeks since Destiny saw fit to bring them together, but Geralt feels an immense sense of responsibility for Ciri - knows without a doubt that he would kill for her if it meant she would be safe. 

The amount of affection and care and worry he already carries for his Child Surprise should frighten him, but he finds himself strangely at peace with it. He’s been meant to feel this way since he claimed the Law of Surprise; this child is  _ his.  _ He’s just playing catch up.

Ciri is smart, incredibly resilient, and brave. She tells Geralt about the harrowing days between the fall of Cintra and when she found him, and he finds himself proud of how crafty his Child Surprise was, and guilty for how long it took him to make his way to her. 

He resolves to let nothing else happen to Ciri. Which will prove hard, what with the entire Nilfgaardian army hell-bent on finding her.

Geralt starts with the small things.

They switch out her turquoise coat for something a bit more inconspicuous, a thick, black cloak with a wide hood that manages to cover the upper half of her face when it’s up. Her long, moonlit hair is cut to just above her shoulders, and pulled back into a tight ponytail. Any passerby who even deigns to spare Ciri a glance clad the way she is now thinks she’s a boy. That may not have been the initial intention, but Geralt’s certainly not going to complain. Not when the decreased scrutiny gives them significantly more freedom to stop at inns and taverns on their way north. 

It’s how they find themselves in one such tavern, enjoying a hot meal, when the doors burst open and Ciri tenses, fingers tightening around the handle of her spoon.

Geralt notices right away. “What’s -”

“Nilfgaard soldiers,” she whispers in between paled lips. “Look.”

He turns slowly, in a bid to avoid rousing any suspicion, and sees a gaggle of soldiers perched by the bar, flagging the barkeep for drinks. Their armor is unmistakably Nilfgaard.

A low and vehement “ _ fuck, _ ” leaves Geralt’s lips as he faces Ciri once more. “Finish what you can. We need to get out of here.”

Ciri nods once, proceeding to slurp down as much of her stew without burning her tongue. Geralt meanwhile straps his steel sword to his back, and secures the fastening of his cloak. 

They’re walking calmly towards the entrance, Geralt with his hand on Ciri’s shoulder, guiding her, when his ears pick up the soldiers’ conversation.

“Any leads on the girl?”

“Not yet, though Cahir suspects she may have gone off with that Witcher.”

“What, the Butcher of Blaviken? Wouldn’t much like to cross his path.”

“Neither would I, but methinks we can probably draw him out into a trap.”

“And how would you propose we do that?”

“You know the bard that’s gone up and down the entire bloody Continent singing about his White Wolf?”

Geralt’s entire body freezes up, and he finds it hard to breathe. The only thoughts running through his head are:

_ No, no, no. _

And:

_ Not him, not him, not him. _

He somehow manages to keep his wits about him and escort Ciri out. They make it to the stables and to Roach after that, and he helps his Child Surprise up onto the mare.

“Geralt,” she says, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?”

The Witcher grits his teeth; fingers tightening on Roach’s reins. “We have to find Yennefer.”

***

He ends up finding Triss first, hoping she has a lead on Yennefer’s whereabouts. 

Lucky, for him, she does. 

“She’s recovering in her estate in Toussaint,” Triss informs him.

“Recovering?” he asks.

“Yennefer was...injured during battle. But she is alright.” A pause. “The bard is with her, you know. She kept him safe.”

Geralt’s throat tightens. “Good. We must keep it that way.”

He follows Triss all the way to Yennefer’s estate, Ciri in tow. When they arrive, the raven-haired mage is already waiting for them outside. Geralt spots the thick bandages running across both of her hands and around her fingers; spies the delicate knots on the inside of her wrists and knows, instinctively, that those are the product of  _ Jaskier’s  _ handy work.

“Geralt,” Yennefer greets coolly. “To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?”

The Witcher sighs. “Not now, Yen. We’ve got some urgent matters to discuss.”

The sorceress’s eyes narrow. “Do we now?” Her gaze snaps down to Ciri, her body half-hidden behind Geralt. “Is this the Child Surprise?”

“ _ You’re  _ Yennefer,” Ciri breathes, at the same time that Geralt moves to fully cover her behind the bulk of his body.

“Not. Now. Yennefer,” he hisses. “Nilfgaard is after Jaskier.”

That does the trick. Yennefer’s jaw clenches, and she moves her eyes away from Ciri and back to Geralt. The door of her estate springs wide open. “Come on in.”

They’re not two steps into the truly sprawling manor before the magicked door locks abruptly behind them. “Tell me everything,” Yennefer says.

“Yes. Do tell.”

Geralt’s heart nearly stutters in his chest. Because right behind Yennefer, leaning with arms crossed against a pillar, and wearing an eggshell chemise and purple trousers that most certainly have a matching doublet is -

“Jaskier,” he says, feeling like the breath has been punched out of him.

Jaskier inclines his head, almost defiant, and gloriously beautiful. Geralt’s memories of the bard really didn’t do him justice. “Geralt.”

***

For a long time, Jaskier is silent. 

He doesn’t speak as the unlikeliest of unlikely fivesome gathers around a large, rectangular table in the middle of the manor’s great hall. Doesn’t say a word as Geralt starts to fill them in on the conservation he overheard in some backwoods tavern, somewhere - even when the back of his spine fills with ice and his shoulders stiffen when he hears Nilfgaard plans to get to Ciri - to  _ Geralt  _ \- through  _ him _ . 

No. 

Jaskier only listens and watches. He watches Yennefer with no small amount of affection - Yennefer, whose expression grows more and more shuttered as Geralt speaks, concern for his safety and well-being so evident in the purple of her irises. He watches Princess Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra - a curious mix of awe and wistfulness swirling together. Wistfulness, because he’s sung at many of her name day celebrations and wonders if she remembers him and awe because - 

Well, because Ciri is  _ here _ . With Geralt. Which means - 

Jaskier watches Geralt. Geralt, who is still as formidable as ever, whose eyes of ember still manage to burn straight through Jaskier’s soul. Geralt, who plunged a knife of the most hurtful words straight into Jaskier’s gut, only a year ago. But the Geralt from a year ago would have found it  _ unthinkable, laughable  _ even, to have with him his Child Surprise; and yet - here they are, together at last, in Toussaint. 

And they’re here because Nilfgaard wants to use Jaskier as  _ bait;  _ to draw out Geralt and Ciri both, and Geralt overheard, and Geralt tracked down Triss, to track down Yennefer, to track  _ him  _ down, because - 

“We can’t let anything happen to Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s stupid, stupid, stupid heart gives a helpless little flutter, but still, he doesn’t speak. “ _ I  _ can’t let anything happen to Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes meet the Witcher’s then, for the briefest of moments, before the bard has to look away, overwhelmed. He feels like he’s holding onto his sanity by a thread. Geralt cares?  _ Still _ ? Something like hope begins building in his abdomen, even as the reasonable part of his brain heaves a long-suffering sigh; whispers,  _ idiot.  _

“On that we agree,” Yennefer says. “He can stay here with me. And I’ll go and have a chat with that horrendous bitch Fringilla -”

“No.”

Jaskier’s heart gives another pitiful stutter. Yennefer’s eyes narrow at Geralt who keeps his steadfast gaze on her. “I beg your pardon?” 

The words are polite, although her tone is anything but. Jaskier bites on his tongue to avoid the desperate chorus of  _ don’t push her Geralt, don’t push her, don’t push her  _ from bubbling over from where they’re lodged in his throat. 

“You’re injured, Yen,” Geralt says softly. “Nilfgaard won’t stop until they get Ciri. Right now, they think that’s through Jaskier. He’ll be safer if he comes with us.”

Jaskier is just on this side of hysterical. There are so many questions and emotions swirling around in his mind and his heart. Things like: 

_ Geralt wants to protect me. _

_ Geralt wants me to come with him. He wants me with  _ **_him._ **

_ Geralt’s worried about me. _

_ Geralt  _ **_cares_ ** _ about me.  _

But - 

_ If Geralt cares about me, why did he hurt me? Why did he not apologize?  _

_ Why did he not come find me? _

Yennefer lets out an incredulous laugh, startling Jaskier out of his spiraling thoughts. “Oh, that’s rich.  _ Of course _ men think they’d be better suited to the task of protection, never mind that I was the one who  _ successfully  _ shielded him from war; never mind that  _ you _ left him atop a gods damn  _ dragon mountain _ . And  _ where  _ exactly would you take him and the child you bound to you?”

“Kaer Morhen.” It’s said through gritted teeth, Geralt’s expression twisted into something Jaskier is unable to decipher but looks a lot like...pain. And regret. 

“Kaer Morhen,” the sorceress scoffs. “Absolutely preposterous.”

“It is the safest place for them both.”

“I  _ strongly  _ disagree.”

“Well,” Triss, ever the diplomat, cuts in with an even tone. “Why don’t we let the actual person in question have a say? Jaskier, what do you think?”

Four pairs of eyes are instantly on him. But only the ones the shade of sunlight and molten gold burn straight into Jaskier’s soul. He swallows heavily. It’s suddenly all too much. Melitele, Geralt’s not even  _ apologized,  _ and he expects Jaskier to travel with him once more, as if the conversation atop that blasted mountain never happened.

He stands up, unable to take it any longer. “I think I - I think I need to leave,” he mutters, and beats a hasty retreat to his room.

He feels the pair of golden eyes burn through his back the entire time way back. 

***

It’s well and truly nighttime. The moon, round and full, is high up on a sky dotted with millions of brilliant stars when Geralt finally retires to one of the many rooms in Yennefer’s estate. It’s minimally furnished, awash with candlelight, and the Witcher heaves a low sigh as he drops his swords onto the wooden desk in the corner before he settles onto the bed. He’s already checked in on Ciri, who is fast asleep in the bedroom right across his, but Geralt feels wide awake, thrumming with restless energy. 

He sits atop the bed filled with sweet-smelling straw, trying to slow his overactive mind with some meditation. 

That plan goes to shit pretty soon.

“Unable to sleep as well, I see.”

Geralt opens his eyes to see Yennefer standing across from him. She strolls into his room clad in a billowing violet nightdress that matches her eyes, bandaged hands at her hips and right eyebrow arched high. Another sigh builds in his chest. “What do you want, Yennefer.”

She takes a seat beside him on the bed. “I thought we might have a chat.”

“The earlier conversation was not enough for you?”

“Your behavior left much to be desired.”

Geralt clenches his jaw. “I apologize,” he begins with great difficulty. “If I implied that you were unfit to protect Jaskier. I just - I don’t want you in Nilfgaard’s crosshairs as well.”

The sorceress looks up at him, a flicker of a smile crossing her face. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “While the sentiment is greatly appreciated, that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”

“Hmm,” the Witcher says. “And what would you like to talk about, Yen?”

“Why, about dear little Jaskier of course.”

Geralt feels his throat constrict. “Yennefer -”

“You hurt him. Very much so,” she informs him somberly. 

He swallows against, bitter, acrid bile. “I know.”

“I’m afraid you don’t. I’ve never seen someone so... _ consumed  _ with heartbreak. It bespoke of the kind of emotion I could only ever  _ dream  _ of feeling,” she says. “He cares for you, very much and very deeply. It is a disservice to throw that away. You must make it right.”

“Why -” the words are lodged somewhere deep, somewhere painful. “Why are you doing this.”

Yennefer shrugs. “I’ve come to be fond of our little bard, if you must know. Perhaps I’m just doing this out of the kindness of my own heart and a wish to see him happy once more. Or perhaps I’m doing this so that the great White Wolf is indebted to me.”

“But  _ why _ ?” He asks again, this time with inflection. “I bound you to me without your consent. I don’t  _ deserve  _ your kindness, whatever the motive behind it might be. I don’t -”

Yennefer lifts up a hand, commanding silence. “I do not know what is real and what is the work of djinn magic between us,” she says, “and frankly, it matters little now. What I do know is that Jaskier is bound to you not because of Destiny or magic, but because he has  _ chosen _ to care for you. To love all of you.” Softer, she adds, “A bond of choice, not fate. That is something worth holding onto, don’t you think?”

_ Yes _ , he thinks with startling clarity for the first time in what feels like ages.  _ Yes it is. _

***

Geralt finds Jaskier the very next morning.

He wakes with the first rays of sunlight, feeling as energized and well-rested as he’s ever felt, and makes his way outside. At the end of their conversation, Yennefer had not-so-subtly informed him that the bard enjoyed idly composing songs and playing his lute in the courtyard in the mornings, which -

Geralt’s still not sure why Yennefer would do this for him. But he continues to be immensely grateful for the sorceress, who was able to see past his transgressions towards her to set him back on a path that would have Jaskier by his side once more. 

The Witcher knows he’s done the bard so, very, very wrong, but Yennefer seems to believe Jaskier  _ loves  _ him and, well - 

Geralt is a selfish man. And he wants the possibilities Yennefer spoke of so badly he can taste it. 

So he sets off into the courtyard with the first rays of morning. The weather is pleasantly mild, the remnants of the brisk night breeze still hanging in the air. Geralt takes a lungful to steady himself. 

He hears Jaskier before he sees him. 

His Witcher-enhanced hearing picks up the faintest sounds of lute strings being plucked; the notes of a song that’s both mournful and hopeful, and sets Geralt’s slow-beating heart thrumming faster. 

The bard is perched on a marbled bench, surrounded by bushels of roses, tulips, and buttercups. His pink and blue doublet is unbuttoned, revealing a stark white chemise. His head is bent low over his instrument as he plays, his voice low and soft and sweet as he sings. The image looks exactly like something the Witcher’s addled mind would have conjured up, and he’s momentarily disoriented. The bard looks absolutely engrossed, and Geralt feels a minor pang of guilt as he calls out, “Jaskier,” disturbing him. 

Jaskier looks up - gods, in the first light of day, his eyes are somehow even  _ bluer  _ \- and Geralt  _ hears  _ the quickening of Jaskier’s heartbeat; sees the subtle flush dust the bard’s cheeks, neck, and chest a lovely light pink; smells the lemony scent of surprise mingled in with Jaskier’s unique brand of primrose and sandalwood. “Geralt,” he greets, cautiously setting his lute beside him on the bench. “Did my playing disturb you?”

“No.”

“Mm. Still a man of few words, I see.” Geralt thinks he sees a wry smile curl at the bard’s lips, but it’s gone in a flash. “So then, what can I do for you?”

Geralt swallows. He knows in his heart - can feel it in his bones - that this is his one chance, his only opportunity, to fix what he’s broken. And maybe - just maybe, if he plays it right - he can get more than he could’ve ever dared hope to have; more than he could ever possibly deserve. 

But he needs to be absolutely clear. He must leave no room for doubt. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt begins, gruff and remorseful. “I was unfair to you that day on the mountain. You did not deserve to be on the receiving end of my anger. I’ve regretted those words every single day since I spoke them.”

Jaskier inhales sharply. His sweet scent curdles with pain and confusion. “Then why - why did you not come find me?”

“I convinced myself it was better this way.” Geralt closes his eyes to soften the assault on his senses. He desperately wants to remove that awful, sour stench of pain around Jaskier. “Witchers are meant to walk the Path alone. They are not meant to have... _ companionship _ . We bring death and destruction wherever we go - that is no life to subject anyone to.”  _ To subject  _ **_you_ ** _ to  _ remains unspoken, but by the way Jaskier stands up and moves towards him, and his eyes become just  _ this  _ side of wild, it seems he read between the lines anyway. 

It’s just as well. Out of the two of them, Jaskier was always the one who was good with words.

The bard stops just a pace or two away from the Witcher. He’s so close Geralt can smell the primrose and the sandalwood so clearly; feel the heat coming off his skin; see the subtle flecks of green and gold in his blue eyes. 

“That is quite possibly,” Jaskier says finally, “the  _ stupidest  _ thing I’ve ever heard you say, Geralt.”

Geralt feels a little like he’s been knocked over sideways. “What?”

“Where’d you ever get the idea you were meant to live your life alone?  _ Nobody  _ is meant to go through life alone, least of all you. Is that - is that why you resisted collecting Ciri for so long?” Jaskier is talking fast - talking faster than usual - movements erratic and his arms waving about. “Because Geralt, I can assure you, that you are  _ more  _ than worthy of companionship. You’re loyal, you care; you’re brave and honest and steady - if you hadn’t pushed me away, I’d have been perfectly happy traveling the Continent with you for decades more -”

“Decades more?” the Witcher repeats, incredulous. There’s a headache building at his temples, but there’s also  _ hope  _ and  _ light  _ and something like  _ happiness  _ growing in his chest, and fuck if that doesn’t make the headache bearable. 

Jaskier waves him off, comically impatient. “Yes, yes, yes I am half-elf, you absolute twit. Have you not noticed? Some kind of Witcher you make.”

“I -” Geralt is stumped, stuck between being relieved and bewildered and ridiculously happy all at once. “You’re fucking mad.”

“Insulting me so soon after I’ve forgiven you is certainly an interesting strategy.”

“You forgive me?”

It’s said with a little quiet disbelief. Jaskier’s expression immediately softens. “Of course I do. We all say things in the heat of the moment. All I ever wanted was an apology, Geralt, an assurance you didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t,” he insists quietly. “Without you, life was...I’m not eager to repeat the experience. I  _ like  _ having you around.” 

“I believe you. And that is the  _ loveliest  _ thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“So that’s it, then? All is forgiven?”

“Well, do you promise to never say such things to me again?”

“Yes. Of course. You have my word.”

“Then  _ yes _ , my dear Witcher, that’s it. When you love someone, forgiveness is that easy.”

And Jaskier, as bold and shameless as Geralt’s ever seen him be, tilts his head up to bestow him with a kiss just to the corner of his lips before he heads back into the manor. 

Geralt is left standing alone, his mind racing, his heart thundering, his skin buzzing where Jaskier’s lips had touched it. 

***

They set out for Kaer Morhen a week later. 

There was never a doubt in Jaskier’s mind that he would follow Geralt; he’d follow him to the ends of the world if Geralt asked. The Witcher’s real remorse and apology had simply solidified what was always there - and filled his heart with a wild hope that Geralt may also hunger for something... _ beyond _ friendship between the two of them.

It’s a bittersweet affair, leaving Yennefer behind. Jaskier feels positively close to tears and tries desperately to hold it together. It should feel impossible, how much he’s grown to love the sorceress in what feels like such a short amount of time, but Jaskier has learned not to question the mysterious ways love works - only to always embrace it fully. 

“Be sure to change your bandages every day, Yen,” Jaskier says, as they stand right outside of the manor’s walls. Geralt is right ahead, saddling up Roach. “Have Triss help you if you need it.”

The other sorceress has agreed to stay behind and help Yennefer while she recovers. They both seem optimistic that Yennefer will regain full use of her magic in time. 

“ _ Yes _ , Jaskier. Honestly, I don’t see why you feel the need to mother me so,” the raven-haired mage replies with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, although there is unmistakable fondness curling at the edges of her lips. 

“Because I simply don’t trust that you’d do it yourself, darling.”

Ciri bounds over to them then, looping a hand around Jaskier’s arm. It surprised Jaskier at first, how quickly the lion cub of Cintra had taken to him, and then surprise gave way to pure, unadulterated affection. She is special, he can feel it, and knows with utmost confidence that Destiny has played her cards right putting Ciri on Geralt’s path. 

“Geralt says we are ready to leave whenever you are, Jaskier,” she informs him. 

“Thank you little one,” Jaskier replies, looking up and briefly locking eyes with the Witcher. “I’ll be just one more moment.”

Geralt and Yennefer had already said their goodbyes earlier. Jaskier knows, because he’d caught the tail-end of their conversation. 

“I’m sorry for having bound you to me,” Geralt had said, rueful. “But I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I will always be fortunate to know you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“And I you. I know our paths will cross again soon. But until then, take care, Geralt of Rivia.” Yennefer had pressed a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips after, but Jaskier had not panicked; only saw it for what it was. A farewell between two former lovers who still cared a great deal for each other. A promise of friendship down the line. 

“Yennefer, will you be joining us in Kaer Morhen?” Ciri asks, and Jaskier is pulled away from his thoughts. He casts a smug, amused sideways glance towards the sorceress. 

Yennefer blinks, startled, eyes slightly widened. “Perhaps,” she replies after a moment. “Once I am more healed.”

Ciri nods in understanding and, with a small smile, she waves as she sets off towards Roach.

Jaskier elbows Yennefer conspiratorially. The sorceress narrows her eyes. “The princess is quite something, isn’t she?”

“What are you trying to say, Jaskier?” 

“Oh nothing. I just recall someone intent on finding a child to love - and low and behold, such a child is right here, before her eyes.

“Cirilla is Geralt’s Child Surprise.”

“Yes but she could be the child you  _ choose  _ to care for,” Jaskier lobs back. He steps towards her and squeezes her hand. “All I’m saying is just think about it - and join us in Kaer Morhen when you feel better.”

“Alright.” Yennefer looks at Jaskier for a moment, expression earnest. “Be careful, okay?”

Jaskier knows what she’s trying to say. “As long as you do the same. I’ll see you very soon. This is not the end of our story.”

With one last kiss to Yennefer’s bandaged hand, Jaskier joins Geralt and Ciri, who is already pitched on Roach. 

“Are you ready?” Geralt asks. He’s looking at Jaskier with an expression the bard cannot find words for, but makes his heart expand. 

Jaskier smiles wide. “Most definitely.”

***

Ciri is fast asleep. She succumbed to slumber as soon as she’d lain on her bedroll and Geralt had wrapped her tenderly in thick furs. 

They’ve been on the road nearly a fortnight, with still much to go before they reach the remote mountains wherein lies the old Witchers’ keep. The first frost of winter is settling in, but Geralt is not concerned - they’re making good time, and they’ve not run into any Nilfgaardian soldiers. It’s a good sign; Cahir’s army must have not made it this far up north yet. 

Jaskier is perched up on a log, humming and playing his lute. It’s just like old times and, at the same time, it’s entirely new. The feeling is disconcerting but not unpleasant. Geralt’s heart twists as he keeps watching the bard. “I missed this,” he admits quietly, the words coming out of him more easily than he thought they would’ve.

Jaskier looks up. His mouth curls. “This?”

“You.”

The bard stops playing; carefully sets his lute down before facing Geralt fully. The air is thick with static and tension. “I missed you too,” Jaskier tells him, equally as soft. 

Geralt is looking into eyes as blue as a clear summer’s day, and feels as bold as he’s ever felt and just as terrified, like he’s about to tumble over the edge of a mountain. He slides, slow and deliberate, closer to Jaskier. His hand comes up to frame that delicate jawline, and Jaskier lets out a deliciously shuddering gasp. “What are you doing?” the bard murmurs, and oh yes, Geralt very much enjoys how breathless Jaskier sounds. The question is not accusing, but curious and laced with sweet, lavender-scented hope. 

“You kissed me the other day. Right here.” Geralt taps the corner of his mouth with his other hand, inwardly pleased by how Jaskier’s eyes follow the movement and darken ever so subtly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“Is that right?”

“Mhm.”

“And what have you been thinking exactly?”   
  


Jaskier’s eyes are lidded. His lips are full and soft, and Geralt can’t stop his fingers from running up and down the line of the bard’s jaw; enjoying the way Jaskier’s throat bobs as he shivers. “I’ve been thinking - I want more.”

With that, Geralt slides his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, and drags him into a kiss that is heated, bruising, and full of promise. 

***

The first time Geralt and Jaskier sleep together, it’s on the eve of their first week at Kaer Morhen. 

Ciri has begun training, taught by a rotating roster of witchers consisting of Geralt himself, Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel, and Coen. They each take turns observing and instructing, and it’s only been a couple of days but the Child Surprise is already proving herself handy with a sword. There is still much to teach her and much to go through, but at least she now has a semblance of a routine. 

And her own room. Well out of earshot from Jaskier’s room. 

Since their kiss all those nights ago, Geralt’s wanted nothing more than to press the bard into a bed, or on a pile of luxurious furs, or up against a wall - any flat surface, really - and fuck him until the only word on the bard’s tongue is a sob of Geralt’s name. 

But traveling the dangerous and roughened landscape of the north - and with a  _ child _ ,  _ his  _ child no less - doesn’t quite exactly lend itself to carnal pursuits. And then there was the small matter of getting Ciri and Jaskier both at least a  _ little  _ acclimated to the keep. 

Now, though -

Now, that’s all taken care of. And Geralt finds that he cannot wait one moment longer. 

He stalks up to Jaskier in the sparsely furnished dining hall. The bard appears to be in deep conversation with Lambert and Coen both, but Geralt pays neither of them any mind - staunchly ignores, in fact, the knowing looks both witchers send his way - as he wraps a hand around Jaskier’s arm and pulls him to his feet. 

Jaskier squawks, nearly tripping over himself as Geralt drags him out into the corridor. “What the - Geralt! Where are we going?”

Geralt doesn’t break his stride. Only continues walking, keeping his hold on Jaskier firm. “Your room.”

“And pray tell  _ why  _ are we doing that?”

“We,” Geralt says with added emphasis as they stop in front of said room’s door. “Are going to fuck. Now. Any objections?”

He raises an eyebrow, expecting a witty remark, but his only answer is a flush of pink high up on Jaskier’s cheekbones before the bard launches himself at Geralt, kissing the Witcher with all he’s worth. 

They crash into the bard’s room, Geralt shutting it behind them with a firm kick of his foot, before locking it and pressing Jaskier against its surface, just like he’s been wanting. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier gasps out, hands scrabbling at Geralt’s back to press the Witcher closer, one hand threading itself through the silvery-white locks and tugging. “Was starting to think -  _ mhm  _ yes, right  _ there  _ \- that this was never going to happen.”

Geralt growls. “Not if I could help it,” he murmurs darkly, as he sucks a bruise, a mark of possession, at Jaskier’s neck, enjoying the sweet sounds the bard is making, wanting nothing more than to coax breathier, more desperate, more beautiful sounds out of him. 

He’s half hard already; feels himself growing progressively harder as Jaskier moves against him, sinuous and confident and absolutely mouth-watering, clever hands divesting Geralt of his shirt as they mouth at each other. Geralt, not one to be outdone, yanks Jaskier’s doublet and chemise both off in one go, before pressing his hands underneath the bard’s thighs and hoisting him up easily. He brings Jaskier flush against him and they both groan at the contact. 

“ _ Fuck _ the way you feel,” Jaskier moans, as Geralt walks them both back to the bed. “I can’t wait to have all of you inside me.” 

And, well - Geralt’s vision kind of just  _ blackens  _ around the edges at that, and he grunts, his cock growing as hard as steel. Gods, he’s never wanted anyone like this. 

“Take off your trousers,” Geralt instructs hoarsely, his own hands going to undo the laces of his leather breeches. 

Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide. Teeth come down on a reddened lower lip and - oh, Geralt wants to do that very soon. “Yes, sir.”

If it’s possible, Geralt grows harder still, his cock twitching in anticipation of having all that pale, beautiful skin under him. They’re soon both entirely naked, and Geralt uses the thickness of his body to cage Jaskier, trapping him for his eyes and his pleasure only. 

The next few moments pass in a blur of gasps and wet, wanting kisses and touches against heated, flushed skin. 

The oil is soon to hand, and the scent of jasmine envelopes them both as Geralt positively coats his fingers with the amber-colored liquid. He begins the task of opening Jaskier up, first with one finger, then two, then - slowly, deliberately - a third. 

The entire time Jaskier is moaning and keening and nearly sobbing with it. He throws his head back, exposing a throat slick with sweat, and red with bruises, as he continues to move, fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers with wanton abandonment. The Witcher grits his teeth, biting back against a groan. Fuck, Jaskier is so pretty like this. All wanton and wanting, and the hot, sizzling smell of lust coming off his skin combined with his unique scent of primrose and sandalwood is heady. Geralt feels drunk on it; can’t wait until Jaskier smells like sweat and sex and  _ him _ . 

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps out, one hand scratching at Geralt’s back while the other winds itself in Geralt’s hair. “That’s  _ enough.  _ Trust me I am well and ready. You need to fuck me. Fuck me  _ right now _ .”

The Witcher huffs out a laugh, stretching his fingers inside the bard, enjoying the way Jaskier’s back arches off the bed. “I  _ am _ fucking you,” he can’t help but say, smug. 

Jaskier lets out a broken sob. “With your  _ cock _ , you arrogant arse. In me,  _ now  _ Witcher. Before I find someone else to do it!”

Geralt’s entire expression darkens, just as Jaskier probably intended. “No one gets to have you like this again,” he says, positively snarling with it. He retracts his fingers, positions himself at Jaskier’s entrance. “You’re  _ mine _ .”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright as he looks at his Witcher and licks his lips. “ _ Show me _ ,” he says, and oh, does Geralt plan to. 

He sinks into the wet darkness of the bard bit by bit, until he’s buried at the hilt. His knuckles whiten where his hands are resting by Jaskier’s head, and fuck, Jaskier is so hot and tight and  _ perfect  _ for him. It takes all of Geralt’s will-power not to start thrusting right away.

Jaskier, meanwhile, is flushed pink from the tops of his cheekbones all the way to his downy chest. His lips are red and kiss-bitten and his eyes are so blue they’re practically neon. He looks so  _ fucked-out  _ already; Geralt’s never seen anything so gorgeous, and he wants to bring the bard to new heights of pleasure so badly - wants to keep that fucked-out look on Jaskier’s face for as long as he can - he can taste it. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers in a voice that sends gooseflesh pebbling along the expanse of the Witcher’s skin. “Move.  _ Please _ .”

It’s the plea - coming out  _ so  _ sweet from Jaskier’s mouth - that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge, and he rears back, hooking one of Jaskier’s legs higher up, and  _ finally, blessedly _ , begins to thrust. 

Jaskier feels too good - it’s all too much and not enough - and Geralt finds that even as he doubles down, sets a ruthless place, and fucks the bard twice as hard, Jaskier manages to keep up with him; takes him so fully and  _ so well _ . 

And he  _ keeps  _ talking. An absolute litany of gorgeous, filthy words that only make Geralt’s hips snap harder and deeper. Saying things like -

“Harder, darling Witcher, like you  _ mean it. _ ”

“Wreck me, I want you to  _ destroy  _ me. Want to feel you for days. Want everyone to know  _ I’m yours. _ ”

“Yes, yes,  _ yes,  _ Geralt. Just like that. Fuck me  _ right there. _ ”

“ _ Gods,  _ you feel -” Geralt chokes, but doesn’t let up. He finds that little bump inside Jaskier and hammers into it over and over again, making his bard absolutely  _ sing  _ with it. He can feel the fine tethers of his control begin to snap, and surges down, biting into the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat, marking him as his for everyone to see. 

Jaskier keens and sobs and still continues to meet him thrust for thrust, because if anyone is not to be outcompeted in bed, it is one Julian Alfred Pankratz. And Geralt can’t wait to have him tomorrow and the next day and every day after that. 

And then Jaskier says, voice broken and hoarse and yet still so, so, so sweet, “Geralt, please, please, please touch me I’m so close -”

And well - when he begs like that, how can Geralt refuse him?

So the Witcher slides a hand down to wrap around Jaskier’s leaking, throbbing length. Strokes it once, twice, three times and, with a melding of groans and moans - 

They tumble over the edge together. 

***

Life at Kaer Morhen takes some adjusting to. 

But after a month spent at the keep, Jaskier feels relatively well settled in. It certainly helps that him and his Witcher can’t seem to get enough of each other. 

There are more nights spent tangled up in each other than not, enjoying each other’s bodies. Geralt will fuck into him with such precision Jaskier can feel him in his throat. But Jaskier gives as good as he gets, is relentless really, and he’ll meet Geralt thrust for thrust and squeeze around that gorgeous cock, until the Witcher is snarling and snapping his hips and  _ oh,  _ it’s so good. They fuck sometimes during the day too, though they try to be as discrete and crafty as possible. 

The time  _ not  _ on his Witcher’s cock is spent composing, singing, and generally doing all he can to learn more and educate himself about Kaer Morhen and the witchers raised and trained here. Jaskier establishes good rapports with Coen, Lambert, and Eskel, though he remains wary of and a little intimidated by Vesemir. The old Witcher pushes Ciri too hard sometimes, and he’ll say as much to Geralt and to Vesemir’s face - Jaskier may be intimidated, but he cares for the young princess more than he might fear Vesemir, and will speak out as he sees fit. 

It’s somewhat incredible and awe-inspiring, to see Ciri grow stronger and more confident with a blade. The two of them grow closer, Jaskier suspecting the Child Surprise yearns for softness and affection that he doesn’t hesitate to provide. He finds she enjoys being sung to - has a rather sweet voice herself - and he composes song upon song for him and his little swallow to sing together. 

Geralt is good with her too, a fact that never ceases to warm Jaskier’s heart. He is strict when he needs to be, and tender always. The Witcher has seamlessly slid into his role as father, and his love for Ciri - and her love for him in return - is obvious. Yes, they have their disagreements, but they never sour their relationship; Geralt remains infinitely patient and kind, and Ciri never fails to seek him out for comfort and guidance both. 

They all notice Ciri’s inherent gift for magic, and that calls for the tutelage of a certain raven-haired sorceress. Yennefer’s hands are fully healed, and she’s due to come to the keep in just two days’ time. Jaskier is thrilled - he’s missed her terribly. 

Soon, all the people he loves will be gathered under one roof. It’s a disorienting, but heady place to find himself, considering the depths of grief and sorrow he was in just a little over a year ago. But he’s not one to question the mysterious ways this world works; he’s only thankful that every day, he chooses to care for three of the most incredible people he’s ever met, and every day, they choose to care for him too.

“Everything alright?”

Jaskier turns from his perch on a balcony, and smiles. In the waning light of day, Geralt looks especially stunning, silvery-white hair almost glowing. “Very much so, darling,” he replies airily, stepping down to meet his Witcher. “I’m merely musing about the contents of my next song.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Jaskier casually invades his space. “And what’s this one going to be about?” he says low in Jaskier’s ear, a large hand coming up to rest at the bard’s back. Jaskier shivers pleasantly at the contact. 

“Why, love of course.”

“You’ve been composing a lot of those.”

They’re so close to each other Jaskier can feel Geralt’s breath ghosting on his skin; knows in his bones he’ll never tire of this feeling, like a warm light in his chest. “Can you blame me?” Jaskier breathes.

And then, just as Geralt slides his mouth over Jaskier’s, capturing him in a kiss that is equal parts tender and searing, Jaskier says, “I’m quite simply the happiest I’ve ever been, darling.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone noticed that a big through-line in this story is choice - who we choose to care for and love. a happy ending for all, as promised :) 
> 
> come follow me/talk to me on tumblr: readthemandink

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr: readthemandink 
> 
> Hoping to have the second chapter out by the end of this week.


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